Rules of War. Iain Gale

hole trimmed with filigree fragments of gold wire.

      Slaughter stared at the punctured hat: ‘Well, you’re bloody lucky it didn’t go through your brain then, Tarling, aren’t you.’

      Steel spoke: ‘Sarn’t, you and four men, come with me. The rest of you stay with Lieutenant Hansam. And keep your bloody heads down.’ As he spoke another shot cracked out, the ball whizzing past Steel’s ear. ‘Christ. That was a bit close. Taylor, Cussiter, Mackay, come on. With me. Fix bayonets, and leave your hats behind.’

      Moving fast and keeping low the four men moved along the left side of the street. Another shot rang out, ricocheting off the cobbles and glancing up at one of the houses. They paused. Slaughter tucked in close beside Steel: ‘They’re lousy shots, sir. Don’t you think?’

      ‘Probably conscripts. Though if that’s the case then why the hell are they bothering to shoot at us and not legging it back to Paris?’

      ‘Perhaps they don’t really want to hit us. Just scare us off.’

      ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Why would they do that? What have they got to gain? This bloody village? The French army’s gone home. We’re chasing them back to Paris.’

      It was two days now since the battle and in all that time Steel and his men, like the rest of the army, had hardly been allowed to rest. Marlborough intended to push the French back as far as they would go and their orders were to advance in forced marches to the northwest until otherwise instructed. Slaughter ducked instinctively as another musketball sang high over their heads.

      ‘Perhaps that’s it, sir. Perhaps they’re not even soldiers at all, just civilians. Scared, like.’

      The ball that had missed Slaughter and Steel hit the cobbles behind them and sent shards of stone up into the calf of Private Mackay who screamed and clutched at his bleeding leg.

      Steel raised his eyes: ‘There now. Are you satisfied? You and your damned theories. What does it matter who they are? They’re bloody shooting at us, Jacob.’ He unslung the fusil from his back and, knowing it to be loaded already, cocked the hammer. ‘Mackay, stay there. The rest of you come with me. Second house along. Through the door. Charge!’

      As the musket discharged again above their heads the Grenadiers kicked at the door of the house and it gave way. Inside the darkness took them by surprise. The shutters were closed and there was no other light source.

      Steel shouted: ‘Open a window!’

      Tarling obliged and they moved through the interior quickly as Steel had taught them, one man moving to every opening, waiting and listening before getting into the rooms. One by one they called out:

      ‘Nothing, sir.’

      ‘No one here, sir.’

      ‘Upstairs then. Look out.’

      From the top of the wooden stairs there was a crack of musketry and a flash of flame as the gun fired again. Aimed at Steel, the bullet flew hopelessly wide of the mark and embedded itself in the far wall of the hall.

      He called out: ‘Now!’

      Together Steel and Slaughter rushed the stairs and threw themselves on the figure at the top. It was hard to see anything in the shuttered house.

      ‘Get him downstairs, Sarn’t. I want this one alive.’

      They half-pushed, half-dragged the sniper down the wooden staircase and threw him to the floor, where he lay motionless and whimpering, covered by the bayonets of Cussiter and Tarling. He was slightly built and dressed in pale buff-coloured breeches and a nondescript waistcoat.

      Slaughter smiled: ‘What did I say, sir? Civilians.’

      Steel yelled: ‘On your feet!’

      The figure did not move. But they could hear his soft sobbing now. Steel bent down and turned him over. ‘It’sa boy. No more than a lad. Can’t be more than ten. No wonder he couldn’t hit us.’ Pulling the boy to his feet he waved away the bayonets and turned to the would-be assassin. ‘You idiot. What did you think you were doing? We could have killed you.’ The boy looked at him, not understanding the foreign tongue. Steel gave up. ‘Bloody hell, Jacob. We’re looking after children now.’

      With Slaughter carrying the boy’s antiquated and inaccurate fowling piece, they moved to the door and pulled it open to the blinding brightness of the day.

      But it was not the light that stopped them in their tracks. Steel found himself staring down the barrel of a gun. It was never a pleasant experience, in particular when as now the man with his finger on the trigger was clearly very angry. He was some inches shorter than Steel and was dressed in a brown woollen coat and a tattered round-brimmed hat. Behind him stood another two dozen men, similarly armed and all in civilian dress. The man addressed Steel in a guttural Flemish that he did not understand.

      ‘I’m sorry. I don’t speak your language.’

      The man tried again and pressed the musket unpleasantly close to Steel’s face. Steel, unable to take his eyes off the weapon, whispered to Slaughter, ‘Any sign of the rest of the company?’

      ‘End of the street, sir. Formed in two lines. Facing this way.’

      Steel tried the man again: ‘I don’t know who you are but I am a British officer and those are my men at the end of the street. If you shoot me forty muskets will bring you down.’ The man looked puzzled and spoke again, this time in French. This was better.

      ‘They think we’re French, sir.’

      ‘Yes Sarn’t. I can see that.’

      ‘Mijnheer, we are British, not French. We mean you no harm. We have beaten the French in a big battle.’

      The man looked suspicious. ‘English?’

      ‘Yes, English. Friends. Please …’

      The man smiled and backed off, but still did not lower the gun. Without moving his eyes from Steel’s, he spoke again and pointed at his chest: ‘Jan.’

      From the rear of the group another man pushed forward. ‘You are Englishmen?’

      ‘Yes. We are British. Scots. Ecossais. Thank God, you speak English.’

      ‘Yes, I speak good English. You will not harm us?’

      ‘No. We have beaten the French in a great battle. We are pushing them out of your country.’

      The man thought about Steel’s reply, then smiled and nodded. ‘Then you are welcome, sir. I am sorry. My people are nervous. We have seen so much horror here. Too many soldiers. French soldiers. Yesterday they came again. Many were injured. Some died. And some of them took our food. They killed two men who tried to stop them.’

      French deserters. Steel knew what would happen now. He’d seen enough of this before. In Russia, Bavaria, Spain, and here in Flanders. Break an army, rob it of cohesion and officers and what were you left with? Nothing more than a rabble, and a murderous, rapacious rabble at that, devoid of any principles or morals. There was nothing more dangerous in this world than a leaderless army.

      The taller villager spoke to the man with the gun and at last it was lowered. Steel smiled and nodded in thanks.

      ‘You have beaten the French? Yes, we heard. The French are beaten. But you see we still cannot believe it. Any men with guns. I’m sorry. We are very happy. For many years we have had French soldiers here. We are ruled by the Spanish and their French friends. Your battle will bring us freedom. We thank you for that, sir.’

      As the man spoke, another villager had been translating and Steel saw that the entire group of men was smiling now.

      ‘Sarn’t. Have the company stand down. I don’t think we need worry.’

      ‘You are welcome, Captain. Please excuse us. We are peasants and to us many soldiers look the same. We have to be careful. But look, we have armed ourselves. And,’ he added